Just a Squib From Brooklyn
by hannahsoapy
Summary: "What's wrong, ma?" he'd asked her, oh so innocently. "It's a stick. Is it s'posed to do a trick?"
1. you're a squib, steve

A/N: I said at the end of YSWM that I would be posting the first part of Steve's story soon, and here it is! I actually would have posted it sooner, but I had originally planned a short flashback chapter as chapter two, and that turned into way more than a chapter, and I don't like doing flashbacks longer than a chapter, so I had to rearrange stuff. We'll get to Steve in the future… eventually. I'm not totally done writing and plotting this story, but I love to hear y'alls feedback. I hope you enjoy this first chapter, and please leave a review!

* * *

One day, when Steve was twelve, he found his ma staring at him in confusion, and muttering something about letters, and school.

Steve had been worried that it was a letter from the school kicking him out for fighting bullies in the schoolyard (he'd given Robbie a black eye and broken his own nose yesterday), but instead she'd opened a cupboard, and pulled out a long, thin box. Steve watched curiously as she opened it with careful reverence.

There was an equally long and thin stick inside the box. Sarah Rogers had slid the box across the table to him.

"Go ahead, pick it up," his ma had said. Steve did, puzzling the whole time about why they had a polished stick kept up in a fancy box. The wood was warm, which was odd, because it was winter in New York, and the apartment was cold, but the stick didn't do anything when he picked it up. It was exactly what Steve had expected from it, but evidently not what his ma had thought would happen.

"Swish it around," she'd said softly. Steve thought it was a weird request, but his ma also looked as if she was about to cry, so he did. Nothing, again.

"What's wrong, ma?" he'd asked her, oh so innocently. "It's a stick. Is it s'posed to do a trick?"

"Oh, Stevie," his ma had sighed, and then she took the stick from him, and suddenly, from the tip, a golden shower of sparks flew out.

"Wow, ma! How'd you do it? Can I try again?" He'd asked eagerly, and then, to his sudden horror, his ma had burst into tears. He'd hugged her, patting her back in terrified confusion, and then she told him about witches, and wizards, and a magical school across the ocean called Hogwarts. Steve was utterly fascinated.

"But how come," he'd asked naively, "how come I ain't never seen any wizards around?"

She'd left them, she told him, when she'd married his da and moved away from Ireland. His da didn't have any magic, so she had to give it up. He'd been something called a muggle, and witches and wizards weren't supposed to tell muggles that magic was real.

(Steve thought it was a funny word. American wizards called them something different, ma said, but she couldn't remember what.)

She'd never been much good at magic, anyway, his ma told him, so it wasn't so bad, leaving it behind. The spells had never seemed to go quite right for her.

And then she told him that he'd never be able to make pretty golden sparks, ever. He hadn't got any magic of his own. If he'd had any, he'd already have gotten a letter from the school, inviting him to attend, but they sent those to children when they were eleven, not twelve.

He was something called a squib.

She hadn't meant it to be mean, and Steve adored his ma, but it was just another thing to add to the list of things that Steve could not do. (It was a long, long list.)

"But you don't need magic to make a difference in the world, Steve," she told him as she put the box away.

The wand was never brought out again, and for the most part he forgot, except sometimes when he saw things that Bucky couldn't, because he wasn't a wizard, or even a squib, like him. (Not that Steve cared. Bucky was his best friend, and he didn't see any wizards steppin' up to help him fight bullies.)

Apart from that one day when he was twelve, his ma never brought up magic again.

When his ma died, though, he found the wand again, still in the same place in the cabinet, and he couldn't throw it out. The rest of her things, aside from some photos, he had to get rid of, but the wand felt special.

He moved in with Bucky, and got odd jobs between bouts of sickness, anything he could get that wasn't too labor-intensive. Somehow, they always managed to scrape by together, but sometimes, when Bucky was out, he'd take out the increasingly battered box the wand was in, and wish that he had magic..

Their walls were all covered with the sketches Steve churned out while he was stuck in bed, and Bucky had the crazy idea that they could save up enough, and he could go to art school. That was Bucky, though, always the optimist. Steve did want to go, really, but he knew they'd never save enough, and with how often he was sick, or beat up, he'd never be able to keep up. (He pretended not to know about the savings Bucky kept in a coffee can under his bed.)

When war broke out, and Bucky got his greetings*, Steve tried to join up. He didn't want to be left behind, and he hated the thought of his best friend going into danger without him. And while some people could ignore a bully, Steve couldn't. (He wondered, sometimes, where all the wizards were hiding, and how they could just ignore everything in the muggle world.)

The army rejected him. He knew that was the most likely scenario; he was underweight and too prone to injury and sickness, but until he'd actually been rejected, he'd still been holding out a little hope. He and Bucky were never able to afford the best of anything, and he'd thought maybe, if he got in, they'd be able to whip him into shape.

Apparently, they didn't have anything strong enough to cure everything that was wrong with him.

But he was nothing if not stubborn as hell, so while Bucky was at boot camp for six weeks, Steve managed to get rejected four more times. He told himself it was alright, he could help the war effort from home, he didn't need to be on the front lines, and Bucky would have other soldiers with him. Steve told himself every lie he could, until Bucky came home from training.

Bucky wouldn't tell him more than the bare basics of what boot camp had been like, what they'd told them to expect overseas. For the rest, he'd just shook his head.

One more time, Steve decided, in a desperate, last-minute decision the night before Bucky left, pretending to laugh before the ship came to take his best friend halfway around the world, into an unknown battlefield.

He'd try just one more time, he told himself, as he snuck away from the expo.

* * *

"So, you want to go overseas. Kill some Nazis?" The man said, peering over his glasses at Steve.

"Excuse me?" Steve stared at him, dumbly.

"Dr. Abraham Erskine," the man said, offering his hand for him to shake. Steve did, automatically. "I represent the Strategic Scientific Reserve."

"Steve Rogers," he said politely, still having no clue what was going on. They should have told him by now if he was accepted or rejected.

Then he saw it, peeking up out of the doctor's pocket.

A wand.

"Where are you from?" he asked in awe, oblivious to how his question sounded.

"Queens. Seventy-Third Street and Utopia Parkway. Before that, Germany," Dr. Erskine said, with a hint of a challenge. "This troubles you?"

"No," Steve said, quickly backtracking. "That's not - it's just, I never met a wizard before."

The doctor froze, and looked at him with no small amount of alarm. Steve realized that was probably a bit forward of him, and they were in a curtained exam room, in a building full of muggles.

"I'm, uh, just a squib," he offered lamely, like that made his rudeness any better.

Dr. Erskine regarded him carefully, an unreadable look in his eye. Steve tried not to squirm under the attention.

"Just a squib, hm?" Dr. Erskine said, finally, and he shifted the papers in the folder, looking at each one. "And where are _you _from, Mr. Rogers? Is it New Haven? Palamas? Five exams, in five different cities-"

"That might not be the right file," Steve cut in, trying not to sound desperate.

"No, it's not the exams I'm interested in," Erskine continued as if Steve hadn't said anything. "It's the five tries. But you didn't answer my question. Do you want to kill Nazis?"

"Is this a test?"

"Yes."

"I don't wanna kill anyone. I don't like bullies. I don't care where they're from." Steve answered honestly.

"Well, there are already so many big men fighting this war, maybe what we need now is a little guy, huh?"

Steve felt his mouth drop open a little in shock.

"I can offer you a chance. Only a chance," Dr. Erskine told him, pulling back the curtain and leading him back out to the main room.

"I'll take it," Steve said eagerly.

"Good. So where is the little guy from, actually?"

"Brooklyn."

The doctor nodded and stamped something on his paper, and then turned back to Steve.

"Congratulations, soldier," the doctor said, handing him the folder, and walking away.

Steve flipped it open eagerly. There it was, in the lower corner of the page, the two letters that would get him in the Army.

His arm pressed against the long, thin box in his jacket, and his breath rattled out of him in relief.

He'd made it.

* * *

* The draft letters sent out for WWII began with a "Greetings" from the President, and people would say they 'got their greetings' when they were drafted.


	2. a dancing monkey

A/N: If it looks like it's from the movie, it probably is. ;) I think there'll only be one more chapter here in the past before we skip to the future, which I am really excited about!

Also, I don't think I mentioned in the first chapter, but this story is a part of my 'Phil Coulson is a Squib' series, so please go to my profile if you want more in this HP/Avengers universe I'm trying to build! And please, enjoy this chapter! I think you'll all like what I did with Peggy :)

* * *

It was really a potion, not a serum, Erskine told him, the night before the procedure. He told him everything about what he'd done in Germany; his work as a Potions-master, and the uncompleted potion that his former friend, Zola, had stolen and run with to a man named Johann Schmidt, the leader of a Nazi organization called Hydra.

"It did not go well. He lived, but became… something else. I do not know if it is because the potion was not perfected, or if it was because he is a muggle," Erskine mused, swirling his whiskey. (He'd poured the glass for himself with an easy flick of his wand that Steve had watched with complete fascination.)

"I might as well be a muggle," Steve said despondently. Erskine looked at him with alarm.

"No, no," he protested. "You might not be able to perform magic, but there is still a small amount of innate… sensitivity to it. It is why squibs can see magical creatures, and muggles do not even usually notice them."

"Oh," Steve said, feeling slightly mollified. "It wouldn't work at all on a muggle, then?"

Erskine hummed thoughtfully, swirling his whiskey. "It would work, yes, but not nearly so well. Potions always work better on our own kind. And there is something to be said for the character of a person, too. This potion amplifies everything, you know. It is why I picked you. For your heart."

"Thanks, I think," said Steve, but he was flattered, most especially because Erskine had said 'our own kind', even though he'd never really been a part of the wizarding world. It was nice.

"Whatever happens tomorrow," Erskine said, "you must promise me one thing, Steven. That you will stay who you are. Not a perfect soldier, but a good man."

Steve hadn't managed to say anything to that; he'd nodded his acquiescence through a tight throat.

* * *

The potion was awful. It burned as it coursed through his arteries and veins, and his heart pounded faster than it ever had before in his life, pushing the burning higher and higher, but Steve refused to let them stop.

Afterward, though, when Erskine was dead and they'd dressed up Steve in costume tights and put him on a stage, he wondered if it was worth it. His body now was the antithesis of everything it used to be, and yet, he felt more useless than ever.

It almost felt like a mockery when they named him Captain America.

He got good at it, even if he felt decidedly idiotic prancing around in that tight costume on stage, after the first month of shows, he went out on the stage without his lines taped to the back, and by the third or fourth month, he actually felt relatively comfortable on stage. The script became second-nature, the acting easier, but no less cheesy, although they did take his suggestions a few times. It was always more exciting when he 'caught' Hitler trying to sneak up on him.

The films were a whole different level. There was no crowd to play off, just a bunch of cameras and directors, and Steve had no idea how well he'd done there until the films were put out in theatre. (As it turned out, they went over very well.)

The tour around the States lasted nearly a year before they went overseas. Steve knew there was a good chance he'd be performing in front of Bucky's regiment, although he hoped he wouldn't. He purposefully didn't ask which one they were performing for first.

He felt guilty, for not telling his best friend what he'd done; what he'd signed up for and what he'd become. Steve didn't feel ashamed – he was doing something useful – but he'd always wanted to do more.

Being pelted with vegetables wasn't exactly in his expectations, but Steve kinda felt like he deserved it, and the rain that began drizzling down after the show perfectly matched his mood, as he sat despondently sketching under a canopy.

Even hearing Agent Carter approaching didn't cheer him up. She hadn't ever been much for chit chat, at least not at Camp LeHigh, and he'd bungled his way through a conversation on the way to the secret lab where they'd injected the potion into him. So, he'd had plenty of time to form a crush on her.

"Hello, Steve," she said, stepping carefully around a few crates.

"Agent Carter," he said, looking up at her from his drawing. "What're you doing here?"

"Officially, I'm not," she said, sitting next to him. "That was quite a performance."

"Yeah, had to improvise a bit. The audiences I'm used to are more… twelve. But at least I'm doing something. Phillips would've had me stuck in a lab."

"Those were your only two options? Lab rat or dancing monkey? You were meant for more than this, Steve," Peggy said. Steve couldn't help the droop of his shoulders. "What?"

"For the longest time I dreamed about coming overseas, serving my country. I finally got all I wanted and I'm wearing tights," Steve scoffed, watching another truck pull up, and bedraggled men pile out. "They look like they've been through hell."

"These men more than most," Peggy sighed. "Schmidt sent a force, two hundred men went up against them, less than 50 returned. Your audience contained what remained of the 107th, the rest never came back."

"The 107th?!" Steve cried, barely hearing Peggy's affirmative answer.

He ran straight to Phillips, who was apologetic, but firm. He wasn't sending anyone to go find the hundred and fifty or so men that had been captured.

All Steve could think about was the possibility that Bucky might be alive. He didn't care if he had to walk, if Phillips wouldn't send anyone to rescue those men, he'd do it himself. He was storming through the camp to see if he could find, at the very least, a motorcycle, when Peggy ran up to him, and grabbed his arm to stop him.

"You told me you thought I was meant for more than this," Steve said harshly. "Did you mean that?"

"Of course," she said, a bit breathlessly.

"Then you gotta let me go," He told her, looking down at her hand on his arm significantly.

"I can do more than that," Peggy grinned.

And she certainly did. Before Steve could say anything, she'd pulled him to the side and behind a tent, and then – well, there wasn't any good way to describe it. She twisted, and then Steve felt squished all around, and then he opened his eyes, and they were definitely not behind the tent in the camp anymore. They were standing beside what appeared to be a small airplane hangar.

"What just – you're a witch!" Steve exclaimed, incredulously. Peggy fixed him with a look.

"That's classified," she said. "But yes."

"Okay," Steve said, feeling a little overwhelmed. "How, exactly, did you get involved in a muggle war?"

"You've noticed, then."

"That not many wizards seem to care about how the other side lives? Yeah," Steve snorted. "I noticed."

"Well, I'm one of the ones who does care. And so did Erskine," Peggy retorted.

"I know. He talked to me, the night before," Steve said, not able to help the guilt that flashed across his face when he thought of how helpless he'd been to stop Erskine from dying.

"It wasn't your fault, Steve," Peggy said softly. "If it was anyone's, it was mine. I was the Auror assigned to him, and I failed."

Steve looked at her in complete confusion for a moment.

"A what now?" He asked. Peggy sighed.

"I'm an Auror," she repeated. "It's like, oh… a wizard cop?"

"Huh," said Steve, and then he shook his head a little. "Wizard cops," he whispered under his breath, still in disbelief of his own ears. Peggy was watching him in slight concern when he glanced back at her.

"Well," she said, with an expectant lift of her eyebrow. "Shall we go save your friend?"


	3. star spangled man

A/N: This chapter will take us through the rest of CA:TFA! We're almost to the Avengers, guys! Woohoo! Bonus, I will probably be able to post the chapter after this pretty quickly, since it's mostly written. Anyway, please enjoy this chapter!

* * *

Howard Stark was not a wizard. Or even a squib. But he was, Peggy quickly explained, as she led him around the side of the building to the door, was one of the few muggles that was privileged with the knowledge of the existence of the magical world.

"Agent Carter!" Howard cried, as soon as he saw them, pushing himself out of the car engine he was dismantling. He glanced momentarily at Steve. "What does the army need me for today?"

"Officially, nothing," Peggy said.

"Ah, I see," Howard smirked. "Unofficially, then?"

"I need to get behind enemy lines," Steve said, finally speaking up.

"Silly of them to waste Erskine's greatest work on the stage," Howard said, shaking his head. "I can have you up in the air in an hour. Less, if Ms. Carter will help me."

He waved a finger, mimicking the swishing movement of a wand. She rolled her eyes, but drew her wand out from inside her coat.

Steve had only ever seen his ma's wand up close before, and it was simple, understated. Peggy's was a deep, rich, reddish-colored wood, with lighter whorls running down it, and it gleamed, like she'd polished it.

If he hadn't already had a crush on Peggy, he would've as soon as he'd seen her wand. He followed her and Howard across the hangar to a little bi-wing plane. Howard crouched beneath it, beckoning for Peggy to join him, and Steve waited awkwardly.

"Could you levitate that while I line this up?"

"_Wingardium Leviosa_," Peggy swished and flicked precisely.

"Perfect," Howard exclaimed, as he reached beneath the floating part to rearrange the wires beneath.

"Alright, drop it."

"_Finite._"

"Is there… anything I can help with?" Steve asked, tentatively. Howard pulled out of the nose of the plane momentarily.

"Grab me the black rubber hose from the table, up front," he said, and then turned back to the interior, "Just right there, yeah, clean that out."

"_Scourgify_," Steve heard Peggy say, as he went to collect the part for Howard. He was trying very hard not to be jealous, mostly of Howard's suavity, but also of Peggy's magic.

He'd never felt jealous of Erskine, but the doctor had never done much magic in front of him. Peggy had just performed the most magic he'd ever seen at once, and he couldn't help that old longing from springing up again in his heart.

Get over it, Steve, he told himself, grabbing the hose and heading back to the plane. Maybe he couldn't change his squib state of being, but he could make a difference in this war.

* * *

"Allow me?" Peggy asked, breaking though Steve's thoughts. They were minutes out from his drop, and he'd been trying to organize his thoughts before he jumped into enemy territory. Howard talking about fondue hadn't helped.

Peggy was holding her wand outstretched toward his chest and looking at him expectantly.

"What're you gonna do?"

"As many protection spells as I can imbue into your clothing as possible," she said. "You can probably walk off a bullet wound in a matter of hours, but I'd rather you didn't have to in the first place."

"Right," said Steve. "Go for it."

Peggy began casting, murmuring the spells quietly, and Steve, to his surprise, could feel them. It was a slight, tingly feeling, that followed wherever Peggy traced her wand, and from the corners of his eyes, he caught little shimmers.

Or maybe it was just how close he was to her at the moment. He blushed at that thought. Peggy noticed, and looked like she was about to ask, when they were interrupted.

"Coming up on your drop!" Howard yelled from the cockpit.

Peggy stood, and then stumbled forward into his arms as Howard swerved midair. Steve's arms closed around her reflexively, his heightened nose noting how good she smelled, despite being in the middle of a warzone.

"Jump now, Rogers!" Howard called. "We're being fired on!"

"Go, Steve!" Peggy said, pushing away from him. Steve nodded, took a deep breath in, adjusted the show shield on his back, and made the jump.

* * *

"You're late," was all she said, with a stern look, when he showed up on foot two days later with Bucky and the entirety of the 107th.

"Couldn't call my ride," Steve said, showing her the busted radio.

"We'll fix that for next time," said Peggy, failing to fight back a smile.

* * *

Steve never set foot on a stage again. He became Captain America in truth, not just name.

Phillips had shook his head, but he got a team, magic-imbued tech from Howard and Peggy, and every Hydra-related mission. Howard hammered him out a shield, from some fancy metal called vibranium. Steve hadn't been sure if he was being made fun of for taking the shield from the shows along with him to Azzano, but then Peggy had started talking about what she'd done to it.

"It's an incredible material," she told him. "Most of the time, I can only manage a few well-worked spells on an object. This one took everything I could throw at it."

"So what can it do, then?" Steve asked, and Peggy's eyes had gleamed. She started listing things off, everything she usually did to all their other equipment separately, and then –

"If you throw it, it'll come back to you."

"Come back to me? Like – like one of those things from Australia?"

"Boomerangs. Yes, exactly," Peggy said, pleased.

"Huh, that oughtta be useful," Steve mused.

It definitely was. It became his favorite weapon, too, because, despite being a messy way to take someone out, he could use it long-distance, and trust he wouldn't lose it, or have to go out of his way to retrieve it.

The Commandoes became the most efficient, most highly successful team the Allies had. They tore through Hydra base after base, without losing a man. Or woman.

Peggy didn't go on all their missions, but whenever there were files or information that needed to be retrieved before they blew a place, she went in. The other Commandoes thought she was the slickest spy they'd ever met, but Steve knew better. Peggy preferred, and was very skilled at, a Disillusionment charm that even his own supersoldier eyes had a difficult time seeing.

One memorable mission, however, she'd used a Polyjuice potion to turn into someone else. That one had been unsettling. Steve hadn't really relaxed until she'd changed back, afraid that somehow the potion would leave her stuck in someone else's body.

Neither of them ever said it out loud, or directly, but Steve knew that as soon as the war was over, they'd go steady.

Bucky teased him about it, relentlessly.

"You sure know how to pick 'em, Stevie," he said, shaking his head one night when they were on leave in France. Steve had had enough of that, though.

"Look here, Buck," he said, bitingly, "Peggy's the best gal I ever met, and –"

"Woah, woah, Stevie, I didn't mean it like that," Bucky interrupted him. "Thing is, you're stubborn, and crazy, and it gets you in lots of trouble." Steve didn't deny it. "I think, she's just stubborn and crazy enough to follow you into the trouble and haul you out in one piece, that's all. Now whaddaya say to that?" He raised his mug of beer, waiting.

Steve rolled his eyes, but he lifted his own mug to meet Bucky's.

"Amen," he said, and they both drank.

"Now," Bucky said, obviously having waited until Steve had a mouthful. "I'm the best man, yeah?"

Bucky was just lucky he didn't spew his beer all over him.

* * *

Three weeks later, Steve looked down a dark ravine from a speeding train and thought, there goes my best man.

He wasn't too proud to admit he didn't deal with it well. None of them did, but, as Steve numbly told Peggy in a demolished bar in Poland, he couldn't drink his problems away like the others. He had to remember it, playing back like a movie in his better-than-perfect memory, taunting him with the knowledge that it was all his fault, that he'd watched his friend fall and done nothing.

"There was nothing you could have done, Steve," Peggy said, but he'd already known that. It didn't make a difference.

Hydra was almost dead anyway, and they could all feel it. After they caught Zola, they all felt like they were sprinting to the finish. And now that they'd lost Bucky, Phillips was gruffer, Peggy was more brisk, Howard was more manic, and they all got a little more reckless. They'd been reckless before, but now it was stained a grim and rusty red. The reality of how this could end was no longer something to be joked about.

On the airstrip, Phillips with the pedal to the floor to try and give Steve a chance to catch Schmidt's plane, Peggy leaned forward and kissed him.

He could only stare at her when she pulled away. It wasn't what he'd imagined their first kiss to be like. He thought it would be in celebration, when they'd won the war and nothing could stand in their way.

This felt more like a goodbye.

"I ain't gonna kiss you," Phillips barked. "What're you waiting for, Rogers?"

Steve leapt into action. He caught the plane, took out the Hydra pilots, fought Schmidt, and then – well.

It turned out it was a goodbye kiss, after all.

* * *

I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I'm crying, too.


	4. out of dreams

A/N: So, I'm not going to say anything here about Endgame except that it wrecked me and I'm not over it. Bring tissues when you go see it. That is all. Back to your irregularly unscheduled programming! Lol.

* * *

Steve was very warm, which was nice, because the last he'd remembered, he'd been freezing in the frigid water of the Arctic. He didn't open his eyes for a few moments, letting himself enjoy the comfort of a soft warm bed, for once.

There was a radio playing; a baseball game was on. Steve frowned as he listened to it. Something was wrong. He opened his eyes and sat up.

No, he definitely remembered this game. He looked down at himself, dressed in too-crisp, too-white clothes. The door opened, and a pretty nurse walked in. She, too, was perfectly done. Much too perfect. He gave her the benefit of the doubt, however, and asked where he was. He told her he recognized the game.

She stalled badly, and he took the chance to bolt when he heard her click a button calling for assistance. To what purpose, he didn't want to stick around to find out.

It wasn't hard to make his way outside the building, which caused Steve to reevaluate his ideas of who was holding him, but then he was on the street, and there were lights, and strange screens, noises, people, vehicles, smells –

It was all too much, and Steve had to stop. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to catch a breath as all around him familiar sights were like strangers. This was New York, but it wasn't at the same time. Black SUVs pulled up on the sidewalk, surrounding him. A tall man wearing an eyepatch and an intimidatingly long coat emerged from the closest car, and Steve had a horrible feeling he knew what he was going to say.

He was in the future. Well, Steve supposed it was the present, but to him -

Seventy years.

Gone, in what felt like a moment. Bucky was gone, last week and seven decades ago. The Commandos, here yesterday, gone years ago.

Peggy. His promise of a dance at the Stork Club he never thought he'd survive to make. If he showed up two weeks from now, he'd still be seventy years too late.

He nodded along to whatever else eyepatch man said, too overwhelmed to do anything else.

"Director," a calm voice said, interrupting the flow of information that he hadn't been processing. Steve looked in surprise at a man in a suit he hadn't even noticed before, standing unassumingly beside the director.

"We should probably move this conversation out of Times Square," the man continued, unaffected by the stern visage of the director. Steve was sure he'd been told his name at some point, but he'd missed it.

The director huffed and glared with his one eye at all the civilians gathering and gawking at them.

"Point, Coulson," the director said. "Let's wrap it up here."

"Captain," said the man the director had identified as Coulson. The director himself was barking out more orders, something about 'wiping' things from 'social media', but Steve's focus was entirely on the man in front of him.

"I'm Agent Phil Coulson," said Coulson. "It's an honor to meet you, officially." Steve attempted a smile, but it fell a little flat, dying before his lips had hardly even twitched.

"I sort of met you - I mean, I watched you while you were sleeping," the agent continued. Nope, not weird, not weird at all, Steve told himself.

"I mean, I was present while you were unconscious. From the… ice. You - it's really, it's just a huge honor to… Want a lift?" Coulson asked, gesturing at the car behind him, clearly trying to salvage his awkward first impression. It wasn't really a question, but Steve appreciated it being made to sound like one.

Coulson opened the passenger-side door for him, and Steve slid in. Cars sure had advanced quite a lot, he noticed, but it didn't look like they could fly. Bucky would've been disappointed.

The tiniest of movements caught his eye, and he turned quickly in his seat. There were two people in the back, a woman and a man.

The woman had short red curled hair and looked incredibly bored. She flashed him a polite smile that faded as quickly as it had appeared. The man, grinning widely, waved at him.

"Hey, dude," he said, sticking his hand out. Steve shook it, noticing that his arm muscles were exceptionally toned, and he wondered if it had anything to do with the slim case propped beneath the man's legs. Not quite right for a gun. Some kind of futuristic specialty weapon, maybe?

"Agent Barton," said Agent Barton, "and that's Agent Romanoff." Steve got a nod from the redhead.

"I suppose you already know who I am," Steve said, and he must've sounded more exhausted and resigned than he'd meant to, because Barton winced.

"Yeah, sorry. Captain," Barton said, with a mock salute. "Hey, uh, what'd Coulson say to you?"

Steve looked Barton over carefully. He was sitting on the edge of the back seat, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

"I get the feeling I really shouldn't tell you," he said, and that suspicion was confirmed by Barton's bark of laughter.

"Aw, Coulson, no."

Romanoff's hand shot out and waved expectantly in front of Barton. He groaned but fished a ten-dollar bill from somewhere inside his tac-vest and slapped it into her hand.

Well, at least currency hadn't changed, Steve thought, as Romanoff smirked triumphantly at a pouting Barton.

The driver's door opened, and Coulson slid into the seat. Barton and Romanoff's expressions immediately went neutral.

"Seatbelts," Coulson said, shooting a stern glance in the rearview mirror to the two agents in the back. "We're not in Russia, or the circus," he added, as Barton grumbled, but they both complied.

Steve realized he hadn't even thought about his own seatbelt and tried to sneakily buckle it.

"Aha!" Barton cried. "Captain America didn't have his on either."

The click of his buckle snapping in place was much louder after that.

"Only used'ta have seat belts in planes," Steve muttered defensively. He met Coulson's eyes in the mirror, and quickly looked away, feeling weirdly guilty for some reason.

The car was silent as they pulled into the city traffic, and Steve wished he hadn't inadvertently killed the conversation, because now he was free to think, and remember everyone he hadn't ever wanted to grieve.

They'd probably all thought he was dead, too. Bucky's sister, he realized abruptly. She would've gotten both their letters. MIA, probably. He wondered if she was still around, if there was anyone who wasn't dead. If there was just one person, he'd take it, he didn't care who. Hell, he'd be overjoyed to even see Howard at this rate.

Coulson cleared his throat, breaking the silence, and Steve was immensely grateful. "Fury wouldn't have known this," he said, "but… Peggy's still alive."

It was like a shot of adrenaline directly to his heart. He looked at Coulson, gaze begging for more. The man's eyes were firmly on the road, but he kept talking.

"She's back in the UK. We can set up a visit, Captain, but I have to warn you," Coulson sighed, and spared Steve a sympathetic glance. "Sometimes she's lucid, other times… in her own world."

Steve barely registered what he was saying, too focused on trying not to cry with relief. He didn't care if Peggy didn't remember him. She was _alive_. He could almost laugh.

And then, it was like everything piled on him all at once. Every emotion he'd been carefully trying not to feel was there, raw and exposed. There was a buzzing feeling in his chest, and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push it all down, but he couldn't. It just kept building, and building-

Suddenly, the pressure released.

At the same time, the car windows also exploded.

Steve was panting, like he'd just finished beating a punching bag off its hook.

What was that? That… wasn't him. It couldn't have been. No, he was - he was just a squib.

Wasn't he?

* * *

muahahaha!


	5. you're a wizard, captain

A/N: I know, it's been a while. To make it up to you, though, I think I'll have another chapter ready to post in the next day or two!

* * *

"Shit," Steve heard Barton saying, a bit loudly. "What the hell hit us? EMP? My aids blew out."

Both he and Romanoff were crouched in the back, weapons out, looking out of the car for whatever hit them. Coulson just looked at Steve.

Steve realized he hadn't taken a breath in a while and sucked in air sharply.

"It wasn't an EMP," Coulson said evenly, slowly bringing the car to a stop. They'd pulled into an alley without Steve noticing. It was probably better than being out on the street at the moment, however, since they were kind of… windowless.

"What, then?" Romanoff asked sharply, still tensely on alert.

Barton hadn't spoken or moved from his position since his initial outburst. Oh, _hearing_ aids, Steve realized. He's deaf. He could see it now, in one of Barton's ears. It was amazing how small they were now, Steve thought, marvelling at the size and lack of visible wires.

Coulson shifted in his seat to face him.

"Are you feeling better, Captain?"

"What?" Steve asked dumbly. He did actually feel better, but he still had no idea what was going on.

"That was quite the display of accidental magic," Coulson continued. Romanoff slid away from her window and tapped Barton.

"No, I'm not - you've got it wrong. I'm just a squib," Steve told him. Coulson's expression didn't change, but Steve got the distinct feeling he wasn't convinced. He could feel Romanoff and Barton watching the exchange from the backseat, Romanoff's hands making quick signs to help him follow along.

"Captain, you're a wizard," Coulson said, with finality. Steve gaped at him for a moment, and then laughed, nervously.

"No, I'm really not," he told Coulson, and then added, quietly, "I never got a letter."

The agent's eyes seemed to soften a little, and he leaned forward, across the center console.

"Neither did I," Coulson confessed to him. "But I know accidental magic when I see it. Maybe you weren't a wizard before, but you certainly are now."

Steve half believed him, this time, but it still felt surreal. None of the future felt real, and yet it was, in a cruel, harsh, and strangely gentle way.

"I'm a wizard," he murmured to himself, testing it out. It felt odd, to say aloud. He wondered what would happen if he picked up his mother's wand now –

"Where's my uniform?" he asked, almost panicking. He'd had it with him on his last mission - it was the only thing left of his mother he had, he couldn't lose it. Coulson looked a bit startled at the sudden change of topic, but he answered no less calmly than before.

"We have your things back at base," he said, and Steve felt his shoulders drop, the tension draining away. He must have made some noise, as well, because Coulson glanced over at him.

"Don't worry, Captain, we'll help you figure this out."

"You gonna call in the big guns for this one, Coulson?" Barton asked, with clear excitement in his tone. Steve had almost forgotten that they were sitting back there still.

"I wouldn't trust this to anyone else," Coulson confirmed.

Barton cheered, and Steve saw Romanoff actually smile, too. Whoever the 'big guns' were, they were a big deal, if the reactions of the two agents in the back seat were anything to go by.

Another car pulled up, Coulson obviously having called for a new one with intact windows, and they traded places with the agent that had driven it over. Steve distracted himself by staring out the window, but it turned out they didn't have very far to go.

"Right," Coulson said, as they entered the base, "Barton can show you your rooms, and then –"

"Actually, how about the gym, first," Romanoff cut her superior officer off. Coulson didn't seem to mind, only looking at Romanoff thoughtfully for a moment, and then nodding.

"I'll leave you to it," he said. "If you need anything, I'm in my office." A quick smile, and he was gone, striding down the hall to where, presumably, his office was.

"Aw, Coulson, no," Barton whined quietly under his breath as he watched the senior agent walk away. "You know you wanna – ow!"

Romanoff had punched the archer, hard. While he was rubbing his hurt shoulder, she smiled up at Steve with all the innocence of a great white shark.

"Come on, Captain, I'll show you the gym."

He followed her, glancing back at Barton, who trailed behind them, still groaning dramatically, although it was clear he was playing it up.

The future wasn't all that different from the past, Steve mused, remembering the camaraderie of cold nights and long marches with the Commandos. The evidence was quite plain, all around him, that he'd missed seventy years in the ice, but he kept half-hoping that one of them would jump out and it all would have been a joke.

At this point, however, it wasn't a very funny joke.

The gym, when they got there, was incredibly familiar.

Steve walked toward the punching bag slowly, taking in the room. Someone had taken a lot of care to make the room resemble something he might have seen in… in his day. Good Lord, Steve thought, he sounded like an old man. He supposed he sort of was.

A quiet noise behind him caused him to turn, and he just got a hand up in time to catch what Romanoff had chucked at him. He looked at it. It was tape for his hands.

"Have fun," she said. "We'll get you in time for dinner." And then she grabbed a squawking Barton by the ear, and they left the training room.

Steve turned the tape over in his hands, and peeled up the end, wrapping his hands slowly and savoring the familiar feeling. He hadn't known how much he needed this until he'd stepped in the room and smelled the sharp tang of leather hanging in the air.

He brought one hand up, let his fingers carefully graze the bag, and then he let himself get lost in punches.


	6. ghosts of memories

A/N: You may have heard me complain before about characters getting in my head and making me write stuff that I didn't plan happening… this is one of those times. I swear Tony Stark is the most difficult to write, but when he decides what he wants to do even the author can't dissuade him, lol.

Also, if you watched Agents of Shield, enjoy your Trip ;)

* * *

Steve emerged from his room the next morning to find someone waiting for him in the hall.

"Agent Antoine Triplett, Captain. I just go by Trip," the man introduced himself. "Strike Team Delta got called out early this morning on an urgent mission, or they'd be here. I'll be showing you around, instead."

Strike Team Delta, Steve assumed, must include Barton and Romanoff, and Coulson, too.

"Steve, please," said Steve, immediately liking the man. He shook Trip's proffered hand, feeling like there was something vague he recognized about him, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"Did I… see you yesterday?" he asked, as they started walking down the hall together. Steve hadn't actually met anyone the day before, even though when he'd gone to the mess hall, it'd been the dinner hour. Barton and Romanoff's presences had seemed to warn everyone else in there away, something he'd been very grateful for last night.

"Nah, man, I just got here this morning," Trip laughed, and that was even more familiar. "But, uh, my gramps was Gabe Jones."

"No kidding," said Steve, finally placing the connection. "You sound just like him."

There'd been files, last night, left on the desk in his small room, detailing the careers of the Commandoes. (He suspected Coulson.) They were all dead, except for Peggy, but the files hadn't contained any personal details about their lives. He'd stayed up late, wondering what else there was that the files couldn't tell him about his friends' lives.

Had they all married? Had kids? Been happy?

It was nice to see some proof that Gabe had had a life, outside those cold files.

"He raised me, so I should hope so," Trip was saying, with an easy, contagious smile. "Taught me my French and German, and told me all the good stories, too."

Steve smiled back. "All the good stories, huh? Betcha he didn't tell you about the baker's girl in France."

"Nope," Trip shook his head, eyes twinkling. "But Dernier did."

"Dernier? He wasn't even there!" Steve protested, indignantly. "Let me tell you what really happened…"

* * *

Trip was an excellent tour guide, and Steve enjoyed his company, up until he dumped him outside Director Fury's office.

After a knock, followed by a gruff call to come in, Steve entered the formidable man's office. He wasn't totally sure what the man wanted, although he was sure it had something to do with his future at Shield.

He wasn't wrong.

They did want him to work with Shield, but first, the Director had explained, they wanted to give him some adjustment time. A few weeks to get his bearings. He'd essentially just had his entire life upended, after all.

Steve knew he was right; he needed time to get used to everything that had changed, but it still stung, not being able to do anything. Also, they wanted him to talk to some kinda head doctor, which was weird. He wasn't crazy, or anything.

He left the Director's office feeling frustrated. He just needed something to do, to keep his mind off of things, so he tried to find the gym he'd been at the night before, but at some point, despite the tour that Trip had just given him, he lost all sense of where he was in the building.

Steve wandered around the building, totally lost, and tired of the looks of awe he kept getting from junior shield agents. He spotted a door, finally, that looked like it led to an empty courtyard, and headed for it.

It wasn't much of a courtyard, unfortunately. It was completely enclosed by the building, and there was one lonely tree growing in the middle, and two picnic tables. Steve didn't much care about the aesthetics, however, and he let out a long breath of relief at the fresh air.

He sat on one of the picnic table benches, leaning back against the table, and closed his eyes, tilting his head towards the sun. He lost track of time, sitting there just absorbing the warmth, but the sound of the door he'd come through opening had him sitting up and at attention.

A man had entered the courtyard, wearing an expensive, tailored suit and garish, yellow-tinted sunglasses. His short, dark brown hair was styled messily, and he appeared to be absorbed by something on one of those slim devices that Steve had been informed were telephones nowadays. Telephones that could fit in one's palm, and do a myriad of other tasks, as well. The future was crazy.

The man wasn't as distracted as he seemed, though, because he looked up, directly at Steve, and grinned.

"Aha, I knew it! Captain," he said, sticking out one hand to Steve and whipping off the glasses with the other, "Tony Stark. I'm a genius," he modestly introduced himself.

Steve meant to greet him properly, honest, but the moment he looked at him he suddenly found himself confronted with the near-spitting image of Howard, and the memory knocked the breath out of him. Mr. Stark's already strained smile was dropping away by the time he gathered himself.

"Sorry," Steve said, quickly. "It's just, you look a lot like him."

"Tell me something I don't know," Mr. Stark muttered. "Look, if it's my dad you want to talk about, go find someone else. I don't discuss Howard."

"Fine by me," said Steve. "He wasn't my favorite person."

Mr. Stark stared at him. "He… wasn't?"

So much for not talking about his dad, thought Steve.

"He was a little… over the top," Steve said, trying to be diplomatic. "And he didn't think much of soldiers."

"Huh," said Mr. Stark, looking like Steve had just given him a shock.

"He was always flirting with Peggy, too," Steve added. Mr. Stark barked a laugh.

"Ha! Bet he didn't get away with that," he said. "She ever jinx him for it?"

"Oh, she got him real good, once," Steve told him. Mr. Stark's eyes widened.

"Really?" He sounded delighted. "You don't happen to remember with what?"

"Langlock," said Steve. "It stuck his tongue up, he couldn't talk all day."

It had been noteworthy, Steve remembered, not just because it got Howard to shut up, but also because there were some generals and other higher-ups coming around to see some of Howard's inventions, and Peggy refused to perform the counter-curse for him. Steve had been down there to help with demonstrations, and Peggy had taken over the talking, much to Howard's frustration. Steve had spent most of the day trying not to laugh at Howard's red face.

It had just been a few months ago, for him.

Some of his melancholy must have shown on his face, because Mr. Stark started apologizing.

"Sorry, that was rude of me," he said. "I should've thought, this is all fresh, and -"

"No," Steve interrupted him. "No, you're alright, Mr. Stark. I don't mind."

It wasn't exactly pleasant, but Steve would have to face it all eventually, and it was at least a little easier when someone else was there to talk about it with him.

"Oh," Mr. Stark said, seemingly at a loss. "Well. Tony."

Steve just looked at him, confused.

"Mr. Stark was my father," Tony said. "Call me Tony."

"Tony," Steve said, firmly. "I look forward to working with you." He was sure Tony's inventions would be just as good as his father's. Maybe even better, he thought, considering how much easier his son was to get along with already.

"Yeah," Tony said. "Hey, they ever let you out of here?"

"I'm not sure I'm allowed –"

"Eh, Fury needs a heart attack every once in a while, c'mon, let's go."

The eccentric genius had already turned to go, not waiting for a response. Steve smiled, shook his head, and followed, thinking that maybe he wouldn't tell Tony how much like Howard _that _had been.

* * *

Tony, what are you doing, you weren't supposed to run away with the national icon!


End file.
